Logophilia
by VICE IT
Summary: An exploration of interests. RozeIzuru.
1. Odaxelagnia

Izuru leaves countless marks, mere droplets into lakes, as many lakes as there are bites, as many droplets as there are teeth - and there are many - on Rose's back, and his arms, his fingers and his legs, stomach, and anywhere his mouth can reach him. Like a hungry dog, playing a cold bone like an instrument, one evening after another, like when Rose bends forward and cups his face in his long, gnarled hands and slides his thumb over Izuru's mouth. Izuru's lips split, a thin line accentuated by whiter squares, and he slips the finger inside and the other fingers feel his jaw _tense_ when Izuru bites down.

It doesn't hurt. Or if it does, Rose doesn't show it. Izuru isn't sure he'd care, even if it started bleeding- and it has, in the past, and it will in the future; dark, almost black little beads bubbling from narrow dents in his skin that look more like bruises than anything, dotting his arms and his neck when Izuru feels so alive that he might never stop, when Rose begs that he never stops, when Rose drags his fingers through Izuru's scalp and nurses him like a babe from birth. Izuru sucks on the ugly welts, the one that go red and wet immediately, and Rose smiles.

And when Rose smiles, he shows his teeth.


	2. Basorexia

Rose has a big mouth, and it fits everywhere he places it, slim with soft lips that Izuru wishes he could tear up, that Izuru wishes he could bite into and chew up until there's nothing left but the teeth they hide. There's a large chalk-white sofa in the living room, lying like a dead horse in front of and around the coffee table which is low and spilling books, and they sit and kiss for what feels like half of Izuru's life until his lungs squirm and his face is pained. Rose kisses, kisses everywhere, not just his face or Izuru's mouth, which he is so fond of, but his neck, and the throbbing, stark-blue veins that stick out, out of his pale skin like worms. He kisses down his throat, the jugular and around to the front and up to his chin again, because he can never seem to stray away from Izuru's mouth for too long.

He kisses his shoulders and his arms, down to his fingers, and he kisses his fingers until they tingle, between his fingers and every single callus, every single bit of thick skin until it's soft, or until his lips can't feel the difference between the thick and the thin. Izuru's eyes are closed, and he focuses on only his kisses, and for a moment he feels at peace- or as at peace as he will ever feel.

He kisses his chest and his stomach, going straight down the middle and straying off to the sides so he can feel Izuru's ribs through the skin, so he can feel the little lesions left behind from events that Izuru never mentions anymore, dark events, sad events that Rose hopes he can kiss away. In a way, he can, and in a way it makes Izuru forget until he opens his eyes.

Rose kisses all of him, softly and not so softly, and while Izuru's eyes are closed he knows nothing but the way it feels.


	3. Pareunomania

They fall upon each other like beasts sometimes, in the middle of making dinner, while they're eating or sitting, simply lounging about with nothing to do- Izuru wraps his arms around Rose like broken twigs while he pays the deliveryman and drags him away, and neither of them pay any heed to the door shutting because they are too involved with each other, sinking too deeply into their own fascinations until they're drowning in it.

Perhaps they're materialistic- they certainly are greedy, greedy for each other and for their touches, settling for no less than utter nudeness and utter filth within themselves, settling for no less than feverish touches and bites, kisses that overwhelm and sounds that twist into their ears and leave echoes in their minds long after they finish, long after they fall asleep.

The night is never truly quiet. They're never truly still. Rose's touches can do things to Izuru that Izuru cannot do to Rose, but the imperfection is in itself an aphrodisiac that Rose himself could not conjure with his own mind- he craves more, he craves to discover everything about Izuru, every ugly thing that he can touch and kiss and lick with his mouth, teeth and tongue pressing against and into all of Izuru until he writhes and cries, until Rose quiets and until Rose pulls him close like an injured bird.

They fuck like they breathe, and it is not making love because Rose knows Izuru does not believe in it, or if he did, he stopped believing in it. They do not call it making love, and they try not to, but sometimes it slips out of Rose when he's too indistinct and too curled up, curled up into Izuru, all the way into his stomach where the heat collects in a furnace, to see Izuru smile.


	4. Grapholagnia

Rose makes a stifled sound of fascination. The chair creaks, and his back is bent, vertebrae sticking out of his back like ugly discs on a hunched cat, hair messy and as damp as the air around him. He has been breathing the same air for hours. The noise he makes is a mixture of pleasure, pleasure at the sight of something, and of pain, the pain that a lack of tangibility and presence brings to him, the pain of his cock stirring in his trousers, the pain of his nails scratching through his hair and digging into his scalp without him meaning to- it is Izuru's job, not his.

They're beautiful, as expected of Izuru, as expected of his body, as pale and as weak and as strong as it is, and it makes Rose sigh fondly, and it makes him stare for hours on end. Hours which, as he is unaware of when he has sunken so deeply into his own mind, pass quickly, hours that make the room grow darker and darker and the air thicker and thicker, but he does not reach into his pants, and he does not touch himself.

Is he unworthy? Yes, but even Izuru himself is unworthy of his body when it is so beautiful and grotesque.

He keeps them, as he is sure Izuru is aware of, in his drawer next to the bed, and when Izuru sleeps he pulls them out and he just stares until his eyes grow heavy and they ache. He shows them to Izuru, who is not ashamed, because they agreed and made them together, but Izuru does not feel the same predilection that Rose does for the shape of his body, grown too familiar with the edges and the knobs of his knees and the ugly truth of what kind of a life he has lead.

You're beautiful, Rose croons when Izuru nestles, bony and sharp, into the crook of his arm, half under the blanket and half in the freezing cold that's killed so many houseplants. No, Izuru says, quiet and tired, and he lays his head against Rose's chest so he can hear his heart beat. I'm not, but it's okay.


End file.
